


Sonata for two-way radio and underpaid stagehand.

by cobweb_diamond



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Fourth Wall, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Meta, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:06:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/pseuds/cobweb_diamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backstage tech work is stressful enough when you don't have to deal with two world-famous time-traveling composers going missing right from under your nose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonata for two-way radio and underpaid stagehand.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taurenova (JenNova)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenNova/gifts).



> Set during the Horrible Histories Prom at the Royal Albert Hall (although I shouldn't think you'll need to have seen that to understand this).

‘They’re not in the green room? Then where the hell are they?’

Ivan looked like he was about to blow a gasket at any second. Unfortunately, the only medical professional they had backstage at the moment was Florence Nightingale, and she seemed like she might have been indulging in a little pre-show liquid courage. They were probably going to have to cut her skit from the programme.

‘They were here _five minutes ago_!’ Amy repeated, fumbling for her headset. ‘What was I supposed to do, babysit them? There are like fifty historicals back here, and the xylophone player from the Stone Age band keeps taking off his loincloth! What am I supposed to prioritise, hunting down missing composers, or stopping a neolithic tribesman from flashing a crowd of primary school children? We’re going to get letters!’

‘Amy, quite frankly I couldn’t give two fucks about _letters_. The show opens in twenty minutes and Mozart and Beethoven have decided to take a little jaunt around the Royal Albert Hall with no minders and no way of contacting us and presumably no idea of where the hell they even are. They’re meant to be back to the eighteenth century by 6pm, and I do _not_ want to have to write another fucking begging letter to the director of programming at CBBC, explaining why we have to budget in for extra time portals.’

Amy pushed her hair back, trying not to resort to tearing it out. Why did she ever think that doing backstage work for a kids’ show would be any less stressful than one for adults? Obviously there were bonuses, like for example this one time back at the studio she'd got to deliver an M&S plum pudding to Queen Victoria’s dressing room, and she’s helped set up radio mics for everyone from Atilla the Hun (surprisingly polite) to Oliver Cromwell ( _incredibly_ smelly, but that tended to stand for most famous historical figures, she’s learned). But on the other hand, she’s expected to do things like track down two universally-beloved dead composers in 5000-seat concert hall full of over-excited pre-teens with heat stroke.

‘I need to make sure the Rattus Rattus guys are on their mark, Ivan. How am I supposed to find Mozart and Beethoven now, anyway?’

‘How are you _not_? It’s two grown men in powdered wigs, for god’s sake! Sort of hard to miss!’

‘In _this_ crowd? Ivan, half the audience is in costume!’

Ivan growled under his breath. ‘OK, get on with the rest of your duties, I need to speak to the Stupid Deaths dancers about their shitty makeup before I forget. I suppose we can put an announcement on the bloody tannoy if they still haven’t shown up... “Missing: two eighteenth century composers in frilly shirts”, Jesus fucking Christ --’

Amy’s radio crackled. _’C302, C302, are you missing two weird blokes in cravats? One sort of angry and German?’_

She sighed with relief, pressing the reply button. ‘Yeah, they’re mine. Where are they?’

‘ _In the orchestra pit. They wanted to conduct. Do you want security to escort them backstage again_?’

‘Please.’ Amy looked back at Ivan. ‘I’d better go deal with this.’

Ivan waved her off. ‘Go to it, fuck off, organise things, try not to lose any more priceless cultural figures.’

Amy jogged back through the crowds of choir kids doing vocal exercises towards the green room, where a rather embarrassed-looking security guy was standing outside the door. ‘They in there?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Um, they wanted to borrow one of the violins but I got them back here by saying they could play with it later, is that OK?’

‘Thanks, mate, you’re a lifesaver.’

She pushed open the door to find two men locked in what appeared to be a very intense argument. The younger one -- Mozart, which was kind of weird since technically Mozart should have been a generation older, but the HH Research & Recall teams tended to pluck the historicals from their respective heydays -- was red-faced and had the older one’s cravat in one fist, plus Beethoven’s hair was starting to come out of its ponytail.

‘ -- _insulted_ to think that you could throw my name into disrepute in such a fashion -- ‘ Mozart was saying expansively, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying himself as Beethoven glowered apoplectically at him from about an inch away.

‘Excuse me!’ she said loudly, because over the last few month's she's learnt the best way to deal with more or less any European male from 1600AD onwards was: ‘Is this any way for _gentlemen_ to behave?’

Unfortunately, not these two. ‘Gentlemen?’ said Mozart and began to giggle. Beethoven didn’t seem to have heard her at all, only turning round when Mozart let go of his collar.

'Apologies,' he said stiffly. 'The young man seems to think he can be quite _free_ with his words. I was merely assuring him, as his _elder_ , that this is not the case.'

 _'The wisdom of age is no match for the fresh genius of youth!' said Mozart triumphantly, and hopped back as Beethoven aimed a distinctly un-gentlemanly kick at his shins._

Amy’s radio crackled again, and she swore under her breath. ‘All right, you two,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be presentable enough to go onstage in fifteen minutes, got it? That means no fighting, and no wandering off again. You can't let your audience down,’ she added, hoping that might do the trick.

‘Of course, madam!’ exclaimed Mozart, straightening his jacket.

‘Sorry, what?’ said Beethoven.

’ _C302, I think one of the plague doctors brought a live animal with him,’_ said her radio. _'It's run into the ladies loo by the basement dressing-rooms._ ' Amy paused for a second to take some deep, calming breaths.

‘Stay put,’ she said sternly, pointing a finger at the world’s two most famous composers with as much authority as two years of uni theatre-teching and a £11/hour wage could give her, and took off at a run in the direction of the stage-right staircase.


End file.
